


Now Eros Shakes My Soul

by cathalin



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: F/F, F/M, Female Characters, Femslash, Married Sex, Misses Clause Challenge, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Regency, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:31:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathalin/pseuds/cathalin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma discovers that once again, she has been unaware of her own feelings in a matter of great importance. But with the support of the husband with whom she enjoys a mutually passionate and loving relationship, perhaps she can fulfill all the parts of herself.</p><p>~<br/>Now Eros shakes my soul,<br/>a wind on the mountain falling on the oaks.</p><p>-Sappho</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Eros Shakes My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/gifts).



> **Note to all : To my chagrin, I am still finding editing issues as of late on the 27th (all completely my own fault!) that I'm slowly chipping away at in this fic. For this reason, if anyone had downloaded it/wants to download it, I'd love it if you came back and got the most recent version! I should have the worst ones resolved by late on the 28th or so. Thank you <3**
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> I... I apologize for the length of this, and hope that despite this story having its own ideas about what it needed to be, you find it has to some degree addressed your prompt. I tried to walk a fine line between honoring the OTP and honoring the femslash; hopefully I haven't stumbled too badly on that - and I appreciated the note encouraging self-indulgence (and did so haha). Writing this was challenging and eye-opening and a great experience - I was so happy to be in Emma's world! - so, thank you!
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> Beta thanks: Thank you to the filter at dw/lj for helping me through various incidents of panic and answering last minute "Is this okay with what she asked for?!" questions. And thank you times a billionty to the people who did a very last minute and amazing beta - J, M and J - I appreciate it SO much, you can't even imagine. After reveals, I'll name you! <3 It's no, w post reveal, so I can say thank you to LFERION, MORIANN AND JEYHAWK, without whom this fic -- and my sanity -- would be even more dubious. Seriously, you all rock my world. <3
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> Any mistakes or issues are solely mine!
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> Uh, I have a few historical notes to hopefully add in the End Notes, when I have a second. Let's just say that reading about sexual practices and knowledge in the early 1800s was a blast!

**Now Eros Shakes My Soul**

It was Mrs. Elton who had first brought the idea forward in Emma’s mind - or so Emma had thought at the time. Of course, she’d had no idea then what her feelings meant.

It was back before things were settled between herself and Mr. Knightley, shortly after the newly-appointed Mrs. Elton came to grace the parish. The mutual antipathy between herself and Mrs. Elton had not abated. Indeed, Emma’s distaste for her had only grown, as the depth of her impropriety and lack of character came increasingly to light. Yet, despite her distaste, Emma had no option to avoid Mrs. Elton that would not itself breach the requirements of polite society. Furthermore, she found herself a necessary buffer between the Eltons and poor Harriet, and, increasingly, Miss Fairfax herself. She viewed the latter role with inward amusement, as given the near-antipathy between Jane and herself, she normally would consider herself the last candidate for defending her. However, in the presence of Mrs. Elton - and indeed, Mr. Elton now as well - all normal considerations had to stand aside.

So it was that she found herself sharing yet another dinner with the happy couple. Mrs. Elton had opined that the dinners at Maple Grove, her brother-in-law Mr. Suckling’s estate, were not, as such, better; they were simply _better_ \- or this was Emma’s secret translation of the never-ending chatter coming from her end of the table. Any moment she would be invoking the views of her _cara esposo_ in a manner guaranteed to make Mr. Knightley flinch infinitestimally in his chair, and the edges of Miss Fairfax’s mouth twitch - it had taken Emma months to realize that Miss Fairfax did not, in fact, have perfect control of her reactions, and that her outward composure hid great depths of discernment.

“You are looking in particular good health today,” Mr. Knightley observed to Miss Fairfax, breaking into the conversation in a manner which bordered on rude. Miss Fairfax’s skin had a glow from her recent encounter with the elements; it had been unseasonably cold.

“Indeed it is so!” Mrs. Elton said. “ _Particular_ it is, as the lady in question is of the sublime beauty associated with very pale skin and rarely has the glow of especial health. It is something that is being discussed in the most elegant homes this year, the eternal debate over whether alabaster in its pure form is to be preferred over the healthful complexion of a blushing bride. Is it not true, Mr. E, have we not heard everyone exclaim over the question at my brother’s table! ‘Wife, he has said on many an occasion, I would commend your complexion and only esteem more the visage of my sister.’ To which she replies very prettily, as she should, regarding my own complexion, though I myself of course would not describe myself with her words of praise, oh no. But,” Mrs. Elton continued, scarcely pausing to draw a breath, “As for me, I am not numbered among those who consider a pale white complexion a sign of a sickly body or temperament, though there are many who rightly do. Have we not, Mr. E, just heard my own brother-in-law describe the injurious effects of -”

But they were never to hear what Mrs. Elton had heard, as Emma could not forbear any longer. Looking at the complexion in question, Emma had seen a flush rise up Miss Fairfax’s neck and threaten even her smooth cheek, at Mrs. Elton’s impertinent chatter _ _.__ “There is no lady within a hundred miles with the complexion of Miss Fairfax, alabaster or no,” Emma said.

Miss Fairfax fumbled, then dropped her napkin, in a rather shocking departure from her normally perfect composure. “I am dreadfully clumsy today,” she murmured as she retrieved it, throwing a look in Emma’s direction that she was unsure how to interpret, but reasonably certain implied a degree of gratitude. Miss Fairfax’s face was, if anything, even more flushed.

Mr. Knightley had looked up sharply, and he glanced between Emma and Miss Fairfax, then favoured Emma with a look full of approval. Something warm stirred in Emma’s breast, but it was closely followed by a sense of rebellion against Mr. Knightley’s continued urging of Emma to befriend Miss Fairfax, something Emma was quite sure would never happen.

Emma and Miss Fairfax reverted quickly to their usual semi-animosity after that evening, and Emma did not think of it again until much later.

~

The next time something odd happened involving Miss Fairfax, Emma also did not understand it. Or at least, she did not understand it as anything other than extreme annoyance. It was during the worst time, when things were all uncertainty and annoyance, shortly after the disastrous expedition to Box Hill.

The weather was close, and the curtains hung listlessly over the windows in the library. At least here it was cool, and it provided a momentary escape from the party gathered in the dining room. Emma chided herself mildly for taking a respite, no matter how brief she intended it to be - she could all too well imagine the rebuke Mrs. Weston would give her, even if couched in gentle words. However, she needed a moment to gather herself in order to prevail through the post-meal chatter of Mrs. Elton. Miss Bates was in fine form as well, and though Emma still felt - and would always feel - the shame of her earlier behavior towards the good lady, there were times when one needed a moment.

Much of it was the heat, she reflected, dabbing at the moisture that seemed to spring onto her brow with even the minor exertion of walking from one room to another. The heat had them all laid low, her father perhaps most of all: he had turned quite snappish.

All of this, in addition to the absence to town of Mr. Knightley, had Emma feeling less like the gracious hostess of a dinner and more like a poor girl from a French novel, covered in a sheen of perspiration and grasping for safe conversational topics.

“Oh! Oh, I apologize,” Miss Fairfax said, startling and appearing out of the relative gloom in the corner; she had perhaps been examining the portraits displayed there, Emma realized, noticing her set one down quickly from its accustomed place. “I took the liberty - That is, I was feeling rather-and I presumed because the door was open, but I-” She paled even further and looked down, her head and neck forming a gracious curve.

Her silence and lack of open manner, combined with the extreme heat - really, Emma could feel her gown go wet under her armpits - set off a wave of irritation. Miss Fairfax’s apology was feeble at best, and furthermore she had been silent throughout dinner as was her wont, leaving Emma to have to fill in the silences and inevitable uncomfortable pauses in conversation. Her manner now was seemingly apologetic and yet Emma could sense, she just _knew_ that inside she was judging Emma in this moment. Emma felt tall and mannish and ungainly in comparison to Miss Fairfax, not to mention absolutely wilted due to the weather. Miss Fairfax, in contrast, except for her paleness, looked unaffected - cool and elegant still, the only hint of the weather a slight curl to the wisps of dark hair that escaped her hairdressing at her nape.

In three strides Emma was almost upon her, an arm’s length away. “Do not go on so,” she snapped. “It is another inducement to my headache.”

Miss Fairfax’s head flew up and she met Emma’s gaze in astonishment. “I -”

“Oh, please, no more talking,” Emma said, finding that her hand had landed on Miss Fairfax’s shoulder, almost pinning her to the wall. “If I hear any more talking, I am likely to throw myself off the top of Box Hill.”

At this, Miss Fairfax stiffened. Her chin came up. “Perhaps the heat has caused you to forget yourself.” Despite her words, her voice was as mild as always.

Something about her calm tone sparked greater frustration in Emma. Really, the woman was insufferable: why did she never speak out of turn or have one curl out of place? “I forget nothing,” Emma snapped. “Perhaps you think it amusing to watch me keep the conversation going single-handedly and steer it off the topics Mrs. Elton thinks proper to discuss.”

“I do not take amusement in seeing it,” Miss Fairfax said, spots of colour rising in her cheeks.

“Then why do you not assist?” Emma asked, pushing a little at Miss Fairfax’s shoulder: just once, she wished to see her calm facade slip.

“I am not. That is, I do not-”

“Oh, why do I even inquire!” Emma exclaimed, frustrated beyond all measure. Her other hand now was on Miss Fairfax’s other shoulder; she had her fairly pinned against the wall. She shook her once, then again. Even as Emma did so, she knew it was unforgivable; a shocking breach of etiquette. She found she did not care. Perhaps the rumours of a strain of grippe invading the nation that addled the mind was true, perhaps--

Miss Fairfax’s mouth came open and she made a small sound, almost a gasp. Her hair floated around her face, now flushed fully with color. Her eyes, dark and entrancing, were wide. Emma had not shaken her at all hard, but even so Miss Fairfax was breathing fast. Both of them were; Emma noticed her own breast rising and falling rapidly. Her vision had narrowed to just Miss Fairfax, the smoothness of her cheek, the elegant column of her neck, her generous, pale bosom.

“Miss Woodhouse,” Miss Fairfax said, but her voice was a whisper. There was no note of protest; she sounded almost admiring, though Emma retained enough sense to chide herself for believing she could be.

At that moment Emma became aware that the door to the library, which she had closed behind her, was open. How long had it been so, her mind wondered, honing straight in on the point. How long? Or did it even matter: here she was, hands still on Miss Fairfax, obvious signs of a struggle - though there had been none - on both of them.

It was Mr. Knightley at the door. His mouth was open as if he was about to say something, but had interrupted himself upon seeing the tableau before him; his eyes were wide.

At once, the particulars of that tableau - its shocking violence, its impropriety - struck Emma like lightning. How had she forgotten herself in this manner? With a guest in her own home, a lady of breeding? What could she have been thinking? She felt the blood drain from her face and her knees weaken. Her hands uncurled from Miss Fairfax’s shoulders and she staggered back. Miss Fairfax stayed speechless against the wall.

“I had wondered whether this might happen,” Mr. Knightley said, throwing Emma a speaking glance - though Emma could not tell through her shock what his glance was saying. “Is the lady,” he bowed to Miss Fairfax, “That is -” He cleared his throat. “Is the lady well?”

Miss Fairfax nodded, seemingly in a daze.

Emma knew words were required. Words and actions, but what actions could possibly make up for her astonishing breach, she had no idea - perhaps flight to France or Scotland, or at least, shutting herself up with her father and never seeing company again. “I am--I apologize,” Emma said in Miss Fairfax’s direction, mortified at how breathless she was. “I do not, I cannot possibly express. That is to say, I promise you such a thing shall never happen again. I could go my entire life and never be able to make amends, but I. I will try. I do not know what could possibly have come over me, I-” Words failed her.

Miss Fairfax tipped her head forward once, as if to acknowledge Emma’s words, and, visibly gathering herself, fled. Mr. Knightley gave Emma another look full of meaning, then turned and followed after her, striding rapidly in an obvious attempt to catch her up and prevent her from bursting back into the common areas looking as she did.

Emma felt her legs truly giving out; she stumbled towards the chair in the corner of the room and put her head in her hands. Her horror at realizing she and Miss Fairfax had yet further hours together now, when they would be expected to socialise politely - she could not, she _could not_ . And yet, she did, forcing herself to a stand after a few moments, knowing that her father and everyone else were relying upon her.

As she stood up, Emma noticed the pictures that Miss Fairfax had been examining when Emma walked in -- Oh, that she had left her alone upon finding her here! One small frame was lying face down on the table, the one Miss Fairfax had dropped upon Emma’s arrival. Emma picked it up to place it back upright, only to pause as she took in what it was; a miniature her father had commissioned when Emma was small, around the age she was shortly before Miss Fairfax had been sent off to the Dixons. Odd, that Miss Fairfax had been examining this so intently. Emma felt a ghost of a smile turn up the edges of her mouth ever so slightly; the girl in the picture was so obviously full of energy and intelligence and spirit. She, the past-Emma of the portrait, looked like she would strap on a sword the next moment and take whatever she wanted from the world. Emma sighed and readied herself to face the company. She placed the portrait back carefully on the shelf.

Blessedly for all concerned, by the time Emma presented herself back in company, Miss Fairfax had invented or achieved a headache and expressed the intent to walk back to her home. Emma’s shame at her treatment of Miss Fairfax, for no other reason than jealousy or envy or ill humor, whatever it might be - the ill-use she had subjected her to - knew no bounds, and she insisted - absolutely required - that the lady avail herself of the Woodhouse carriage.

~

Fortunately, Emma’s latest shameful treatment of Miss Fairfax had occurred very close to the time Miss Fairfax and Mr. Churchill finally reached an accord, and Miss Fairfax was then much occupied, so Emma was spared the indignity of having to face her too soon or under circumstances that would require them to speak privately. If it had appeared that Miss Fairfax wished to speak of it, Emma would have; she owed her everything. However, Miss Fairfax gave every indication of wishing never to speak of it again, and Emma let that guide her.

As with all such things, the memory faded with time. Fading is not the same as disappearing, however, and Emma did find in later months that specific parts of that odd night would present themselves into her mind - flashes of Miss Fairfax’s expressions, the dreadful heat and irritation, and most particularly, the sensation of Miss Fairfax’s smooth skin under Emma’s fingers. She banished the thoughts the instant they came, and managed, as people universally do when confronted with a memory they do not wish to remember, to almost believe the incident entirely gone from her mind.

Mr. Knightley occasionally attempted to revisit the topic, once their marriage put them even more than previously into a state of complete communication, but Emma for her part wished it gone from her thoughts and his, and asked him to forbear, seeing as how Miss Fairfax, now Mrs. Churchill, was far away, and besides, the old irritations and misunderstandings between them were a thing of the past. Mr. Knightley did forbear, swept up as he was -- as they both were -- in the heady elixir that was the married state.

~

That is, he forebore until the next time fate threw Emma and Mrs. Churchill together.

As it happened, Frank Churchill had business that he needed to see to overseas, as his father had died shortly after his mother, leaving all the benefits - and burdens - of the estate to fall on Frank. He had representatives, of course, and they managed most of the business affairs, but it became apparent that a strong presence overseas was required on a fairly regular basis, and given the excellent relations between the Westons and the Churchills, as well as Jane’s ties with Miss Bates, it was judged only right that Jane, now Mrs. Churchill, should come reside in Highbury for the duration of her husband’s absences, as he was away for far longer than a lady could reside alone with no kinspeople nearby. Rumour had it that Mrs. Churchill would have rather stayed in place - something Emma secretly blamed squarely on herself - but due to her good sense and understanding of what was proper, had bowed to the necessity.

Mrs. Churchill’s return to Highbury caused Emma no end of anxious thoughts, for though she had tried and largely succeeded to put it away from her, she did remember the odd irritation she associated with her. She had thought they were safely removed from each other’s presence, and yet here it was, a mere six months after the weddings, and Jane coming back to reside with the Westons for at least three!

Though Emma had dreaded the first encounter, Mrs. Churchill’s manner did much to put Emma at her ease. She was still reserved, but there was some difference about her; a greater sense of confidence, perhaps. Emma considered Mr. Churchill and wondered at it, yet also concluded that perhaps he in his more open nature was affecting Mrs. Churchill in this one way for the good, at the same time as the lady was influencing him for the good in all other things.

To her chagrin, the odd irritation she had always felt in Mrs. Churchill’s presence returned. And now, there was something of it in Mrs. Churchill’s manner towards Emma as well; an odd light in her eyes when she regarded Emma. She would start, then look away quickly, as if she herself was unaware of her gaze.

Given the close connections in all directions, Emma was forced into frequent contact. She found her own glances tending more and more in Mrs. Churchill’s direction, and the odd frustration building within herself, redoubled in strength. She also found Mr. Knightley’s gaze on her when Mrs. Churchill was part of the party, a particular type of gaze that… She did not know what it signified. Normally, given their astonishingly honest friendship, she would simply ask him, but something made her reserved on this matter.

A motion was made by Mrs. Elton that in honor of dear Jane’s return there be a ball, similar to the ball from the prior year. “I would not say this myself,” Mrs. Elton said loudly enough the entire table could hear, “but there are those who would say it is odd for a new bride to be left so early in a marriage. There are those who might wonder what business is so pressing overseas to require the presence of the newlywed husband. Mr. E, am I not correct? Mr. Suckling himself has often stated that among the truly noble, there need be no talk of travel, that the trick lies in retaining the best representatives. A firm hand, that is what is required, and no representative would fail in his task and require a gentleman to travel. But for us, this failure is not a burden! For us, it is an opportunity. For us, who I may dare to call the best of local society, for us, this will provide the _raison_ for reinventing the ball from last season. Mr. E was just remarking how handsome I looked in my new silk - straight from London, shockingly expensive, you know - and how it would suit a dance, though of course as an old married lady I should partake of only a few token dances - and indeed my brother in law just remarked himself that -”

“Miss Bates,” Mr. Knightley cut in, “How do you find your new lodgings?” For the Churchills had moved the ladies to a larger, more comfortable place closer to the Westons.

“Ah!” Miss Bates cried, “Dear, dear Jane, and dear, dear Frank - for so he insists we call him. Never have two people been so generous, so kind. And to think, Frank himself brought mother a new pair of spectacles, straight from the best shop in London! It was right before he left, wasn’t it mother?” Not surprisingly, her mother made no response, but Miss Bates continued to chatter in a manner that was balm after Mrs. Elton’s speech.

This and other topics overtook the earlier, and Emma threw a grateful glance to her husband, for she had seen - as he had - the struggle Jane was having in maintaining her expression during Mrs. Elton’s ghastly, improper statements about Frank Churchill’s absence. At that moment, the lady herself looked over at both Emma and Mr. Knightley and gave them a smile, one even Emma could tell was not her smile for company, but one she truly meant. It did something to thaw whatever remaining concerns Emma had felt about being around Jane Churchill once again, and she allowed herself to smile back, though she shook her head at the same time to try to convey that it was nothing.

So it was that there was another ball, and this time, as they had experience with the facility, there were no last minute plans premised on fitting too many people into too small a space. It was keenly felt, how many couples were now married, but a decision was made all around that there was no reason dancing was improper once married, and besides there were enough others who were still unmarried that it would be positively wrong to withhold from dancing!

~

 

“My dear Emma,” Mr. Knightley said, the day before the ball, after he had spent an inordinate amount of time alternately sitting forward as if to start a conversational topic with her, then sitting back, then repeating the process. ‘“Are you - Are you quite sure you understand the nature of your feelings towards Miss Fairfax?“

“What? I understand them perfectly!” Emma said, then seeing his expression, added, “Whatever are you speaking of?”

Mr. Knightley made an odd noise something like a cough. “It is just an observation. An impression I have sometimes, that you - how do I say this, how?” he asked, apparently to the bookshelf on the other side of the library, as he was no longer looking at Emma.

“Miss Fairfax and I understand each other quite well, I believe,” Emma said pertly.

“Tell me, Emma. Did you not,” Mr. Knightley persisted, leaning forward. “Do you remember your friendship with Miss Fairfax when you were a young girl?”

“As much as such things can be remembered, I suppose.”

“You were inseparable when your families socialized, which you did frequently. I will never forget your little hands, entwined as they so often were, your heads covered with matching crowns you had made from meadow flowers.”

Emma frowned. “I do remember many happy times, though I did not realize we were as close as that.”

“Do you not, if you search your memories more carefully?”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “I am surprised at myself that I had forgotten we were so acquainted.”

“And yet,” Mr. Knightley said very gently, “You have flowers from one of those crowns in the box you keep on your boudoir table. I know this because you showed it me frequently when you were younger, and only stopped a few years after Miss Fairfax was sent away. And I am fairly certain that you have another trinket or two from that time. No,” he said, holding up his hand. “It is not a concern for me. There is nothing wrong with it.”

“Now that you have brought it to my mind, I believe I do recall that a button I have kept all these years was from her frock!” Emma said in surprise. “And a small doll, also, was hers.” She smiled. “We used to play at ladies overseeing an estate.”

Mr. Knightley smiled, gentle and kind. “Yes.”

Emma by now was fairly used to surprising herself, and tried to take these new memories well, but it still was sometimes shocking, how little she knew even of her own actions, let alone those of others.

“And so, I have wondered: do you suppose any of your… irritation with Mrs. Churchill could be due to your former relation, your friendship, being so suddenly terminated, in a way which-”

“Mr. Knightley, you surprise me!” Emma said. “I am well used to being unacquainted with my feelings, but I assure you, any irritation I have felt towards Jane - Mrs. Churchill - arose purely due to her own overly reserved nature, and perhaps, the weather.”

With that, the conversation was over, for now. If Mr. Knightley watched Emma rather closely after it, and held her a little more tightly at night, that was for them to know.

~

The day of the ball dawned clear and cold, but by evening there was threat of snow. As the Westons had their infant to consider, plus Mrs. Weston’s newly-confirmed condition, they planned to attend for only a short time. They would transport Miss Bates, who had once again kindly offered to be a companion for the evening, and look in on Mr. Woodhouse in the process.

Mr. Knightley proposed that they convey Jane to and from the event, a plan to which the Westons conceded, “so that dear Jane could have a bit of cheer, her bearing up well but most certainly missing her husband,” as Mrs. Weston confided to Emma. Emma felt it keenly, her failure once again to understand Jane Churchill’s feelings. She chided herself for being lax in attending to Jane, and all on account of her own earlier bad behavior. Well, no more. Emma was determined to set aside all shame, if it meant being of any possible surcease to the lady now.

“Thank you. It is beyond kind of you to transport me,” Mrs. Churchill said as she entered the Knightleys’ carriage.

“It is our great pleasure,” Mr. Knightley said.

“Yes. Indeed I cannot express. That is, I wish to say-” Emma stopped, frustrated that the bounds of propriety did not let her say what she meant.

Jane raised her head from where she had been glancing down. “Mrs. Knightley,” she said, quiet but sure. “There is nothing-”

“I wish to say-” Emma started to say.

“Shall we begin again, the both of us?” Jane asked over Emma.

There was a moment of silence, then laughter all around, relief like a balm to Emma’s spirits. “Yes,” she said. “Most heartily, yes, if your kind spirit can support it once again.” She shook her head at herself. “I find I roam through life with little awareness of how things, and most especially people, are. But I am done,” she pronounced. “Done with guessing as to motivations. Let me be all-observant, and make no more conclusions on matters.”

“But Mrs. Knightley,” Jane protested. “It is your kind heart, your warm heart, your fast intellect, that makes you who you are. None who love you would wish it to change!” Immediately, Emma discerned a flush rise up Jane’s cheeks. Jane’s hand flew up to her mouth as if to stop the words that had already fallen out, though she then made a sound that she labored to turn into a cough.

In Emma’s breast, something blossomed, with an ache that astounded her. Was she so bereft of female friendship that Jane’s simple words rendered her so suffused with feeling?

Apparently so, and apparently Mr. Knightley had understood this; he took her hand, right in front of Mrs. Churchill, and squeezed it mightily. “Yes, it is so. Mrs. Churchill sees to your true heart, Emma.”

Emma was all confusion - his voice, very close, dangerously close to the tone he used during their most intimate encounters; Mrs. Churchill’s heartfelt remarks - the carriage was suddenly close, warm, a world set apart from the rest of society. Almost without her knowledge, her free hand extended across the carriage to Mrs. Churchill, who grasped it immediately. Mrs. Churchill smiled at Emma over their clasped hands, tentatively. It made her dark eyes sparkle. None could see it and not respond, nor could Emma mistake Mr. Knightley’s fingers, grasping hers even more tightly, for anything except approval.

They arrived at the ball while the odd tableau was still in place, but they quickly unclasped hands and went inside. The setting was even more magical than it had been the year before. Candlelight and lantern light sparkled on surfaces covered with shining white linen and silver utensils. The golden light caught on the emerald of Mrs. Churchill’s gown and made her pale shoulders gleam. Mr. Knightley for his part looked every inch a prince in his perfectly fitted dress-coat, that accentuated the strong breadth of his shoulders.

Mr. Knightley read her heart and engaged her for the first and last dances of the evening, and encouraged her to dance to her heart’s content in between. “I fail to see why, when married, one who enjoys it should give up on dancing. It should, if anything, be reversed, as it seems more proper for ladies and gentlemen to do so once they are in no danger,” he added.

“You should avail yourself of other partners also, then, or I shall refuse,” Emma said. “Let it not be said that I left my husband by the sidelines, when if I could, I would dance every dance with him.”

Mr. Knightley drew his face near her ear and murmured, so none could hear but her, “But my wife dances every dance with me in the best dance of all,” leaving no doubt in his tone to what he referred.

Emma gasped, but fortunately the noise level was enough no one heard, except Mr. Knightley, who breathed out hard against the side of her face, never unaffected himself by Emma’s passion.

“Husband, you are terrible,” Emma managed to say after a few moments.

“That is not what you said this morning, when-”

“Stop!” Emma laughed, slapping at his hand and laughing. If she blushed, it was only that he was so handsome, and so obviously besotted with her, eyes sparkling at her in the special way they did, now they had found each other in this way. It gave her joy to see him so altered that he would make private jest with her in this manner, he who, now that she looked back on it, was so dreadfully serious and alone for so many years. It was shocking to see him behave thus, and yet thrilling; Emma felt as though the sparkle and flame of the hall had somehow infused itself into her veins. “I shall, then!” she exclaimed when she had partially recovered, and went off to find gentlemen to fill her card, though of course she would never admit that was what she was doing.

The first dance was lively, the second even more so. Whenever she and Mr. Knightley met, there was that sparkle, that frisson as their fingers brushed. Whenever they were apart, there was the awareness of each other, the glances, the anticipation.

Emma fortified herself liberally with punch, but instead of easing her warmth, it only made it grow. The ball was a splash of color and sound and touch across her senses. The music, the dancers, the whirl of silk, it all heightened her sense of being in a world apart.

She was gratified to see Mr. Knightley in his turn dance with Mrs. Weston, then Mrs. Churchill. There may have been tongues wagging about the latter, but Emma smiled beatifically at them and danced with Mr. Weston, happy to her depths. She was indeed the luckiest lady in love in the nation, she reflected, as she consumed yet another glass.

When it came to the end - as the end inevitably comes despite the wishes of young ladies everywhere - the last dance was slower, a chance to touch and linger in it, almost scandalous, the latest fashion from France. Mr. Knightley’s fingers on Emma’s waist burned; his eyes had turned dark. She felt the liquid desire that seemed to be her perpetual physical state these days. Horrified to be feeling this in public, she felt her cheeks burn.

It was over, then, and there was a rush to the waiting carriages due to actual snow. In the press of people, they lost sight of Jane momentarily, but then, there she was, cheeks rosy from the cold, breath steaming up the air. Emma had time to see snowflakes, falling like frosting on Mrs. Churchill’s dark hair and lashes, and then they were bundled into the carriage.

In the hurry, she found herself seated next to Mrs. Churchill. Mr. Knightley took the bench right across, knees touching hers through her gown.

“Here,” Emma said, reaching to her side to Mrs. Churchill’s face to wipe a cluster of snowflakes off her lashes. Her fingers lingered, tracing the path of a flake that was melting down her cheek.

“Oh,” Mrs. Churchill breathed, turning her face more fully into Emma’s hand.

Fascinated by the skin, Emma traced a path down the curve of Mrs. Churchill’s face, under her chin. Mrs. Churchill’s lips - rosy and plump - had parted. She was breathing quickly. Emma’s thumb swiped the lower lip, so delicate and smooth.

Mrs. Churchill sighed and her hand came to rest hesitantly on Emma’s bare forearm. The contact was like the lightning storms of summer; the hair on Emma’s arms stood up. Emma sighed and inched closer to the warm, supple form next to her. It was all so lovely, the gentle rocking of the carriage, the warmth inside contrasting with the cold outside, the heat of the body next to her. Her hands curled around Mrs. Churchill’s - Jane’s - shoulders, fingers caressing the smooth skin. Emma’s lips touched Jane’s hair, the skin just above her ear, trailed down to the place her jaw met her neck.

Jane made a muffled sound and Emma kissed down her jawline, hands curling tighter on her shoulders to draw her yet closer.

Some small sound, and the feel of a strong hand grasping her knee, alerted Emma somewhat to her surroundings. “We have arrived,” Mr. Knightley said, low and careful.

Emma sat in shock for a moment; despite everything flashing through her brain, her traitor hands and mouth wished to continue to claim the flesh before them. For a few instants, she almost considered carrying on, so great was the pull in her to do so. Wiser thoughts - if thoughts her half-formed ideas could presently be called - prevailed, and she uncurled a hand, withdrew her lips. Jane - Mrs. Churchill - was silent.

“I. I do not-” Emma began, but found herself incapable of knowing how to carry on with the sentence. Her heart was beating oddly quickly and she felt unmoored, unmoored from everything she had supposed she knew. She felt a blush race up her neck and into her cheeks as the mortification of the situation presented itself to her in a rush. To be - what? Somehow exchanging in caresses with another lady - it was so far out of her experience she found herself unable even to categorize the breach.

For a breach it was, certainly. Though, getting a quick look at Mr. Knightley’s eyes, fastened as they were on the place where one of her hands was still wrapped around Miss Fairfax’s pale shoulder, she did wonder; perhaps it was not so very much a breach as she had supposed. She had no experience, no thought of such a thing; she was at sea. “Mr. Knightley?” she whispered, barely getting it out. Her heart constricted in her chest at the thought she might have done something to hurt him; she would walk barefoot on coals her entire life rather than that, of all things.

“No, it is perfectly fine, dearest,” he said, in the voice he used that came straight from his heart, that she knew to be true.

Something in her eased slightly, hearing proof he was still her dearest friend. As was her natural wont, she would turn to him for understanding and guidance. He would never steer her wrong, she knew this to her core.

“I must go,” Miss Churchill whispered, and before Emma could do anything except reach out with an abortive gesture, she was gone.

“It is well, Emma,” Mr. Knightley said. “All parties need time to think, and in our case, to talk.”

~

Their talk was long, and involved much blushing on Emma’s part. Mr. Knightley, for his, endeavored to be the soul of calm, of conveying information dispassionately, but at times his composure fled and he had to stand up and pace.

He looked beside himself now, brow furrowed slightly in concern. “It is something I have long wondered,” he said, looking hard at Emma’s face as if to read her reactions there. “However, I did not wish - that is, I have struggled with the correct thing to do. You know, Emma, that I always have shared with you all my thoughts, and certainly all the more so since our union. And yet, I was not certain, and did not wish you to think I was critical of you.” He paused and looked at her, assessing her state.

Emma felt at sea, not knowing of what he spoke.

He cleared his throat. “You are aware, dear Emma,” he said, words chosen carefully, deliberately, “that there are persons who partake of certain pleasures outside of matrimony, that is to say.” He coughed and looked away.

“Of course I am aware!” Emma said, brought out of her dreamlike state by the insult to her years and understanding. Even if she had not heard gossip in the village from the time she was young, she had furthermore availed herself of every opportunity to read of various immoral behaviors in the classic and contemporary literature in her father’s library, which he had never tried to keep from her, believing that preparation was prevention against all the ills the world was full of.

“Then perhaps are you aware also,” Mr. Knightley continued, “that, upon occasion, there are individuals who -” He took a deep breath and said the next part all of a piece, quickly, as if to force himself through it. “That is, men who prefer, or equally enjoy, congress with other men, and ladies who prefer, or equally enjoy, congress with,” he waited until she was looking him fully in the eye, “other ladies.”

Emma’s mouth fell open. She felt it wash through her: another realization that the world had layers she had no knowledge of. As if there were a foreign land, running in parallel to the one she resided in. Like, but not, sharing many of the same residents.

This other land, she did not understand at all. She had no reference and could not comprehend what Mr. Knightley was trying to tell her. She was all confusion, reliving the scene in the carriage over and over, but unable to comprehend how it could possibly work, what he could possibly mean. Emma had had entire worlds opened up to her in their marriage bed, worlds she delighted in. But this… She did not understand.

Mr. Knightley sighed and reached for something in his satchel. “I thought you might wish to see this. My groomsman procures such low publications as this and occasionally leaves them out in the stable.” He glanced sharply at her. “Emma, you must know, I do not frequent the type of place in which one might find such things. You know I do not frequent the places that many gentlemen do, that I do not hold with -”

“Hush,” Emma said, momentarily brought out of her own concerns by his obvious distress. “You are a gentleman in all things, and perfectly loyal to me. I know you are simply trying to explain.”

He nodded, decisive again. “Then, here. I was shocked myself when initially I came upon this, though of course I knew such practices existed, so you must prepare your mind. Delicacy argues against sharing it, but after the honest conversations we have had, the particular knowledge we have had in our conjugal relations, I judge that, perhaps. Well.” He opened the cartoon before her, then went over to the nearest window, standing looking out with his back to her, to give her time and opportunity to view it alone. It showed two figures who were very obviously ladies, engaging in the manner of joy that Mr. Knightley did often perform upon her person, fingers stimulating the very bud that produced shivers in her even now, just remembering Mr. Knightley’s attentions.

She stared at the drawing for a few moments, telling her hands to stop their ridiculous shaking.

After some time, Mr. Knightley moved next to her, a solid presence beside her. He was silent, allowing her to look, and then, to think.

She searched her heart, using all the powers of mind she knew she could bring to bear. She realized with the brutal honesty she was capable of, that though she had had no conception of relations like those in this picture, still, she was not surprised. Shocked, yes. Surprised… not fully. Because. Because she found this in herself, just as she had found an almost overwhelming passion for Mr. Knightley.

She remembered with startlement the conversation Mr. Knightley had attempted to start with her here in this very room, over her youthful friendship with Mrs. Churchill - Jane. Miss Fairfax, back then. Her mind spun with suddenly-remembered details from that friendship - the rings their childish fingers had woven each other from meadow flowers, the kisses they had placed on each other’s lips, giggling, the vows they had sworn to be always most cherished of friends.

Of course, they had been mere children, young at that. And yet. And yet, Emma now remembered with sickening clarity, the day Jane Fairfax had been sent away, never to return. It had rent her little heart in two. She had become ill - first, just sick in heart, then, ill with fever, causing her father terror beyond imagining, she now realized. The misery she had felt in her body was nothing to the misery in her soul, her friend having left her without even a farewell.

Now, in another bolt of clarity, Emma saw it all; how her anger over being left had festered and grown, even as her conscious mind forgot the friendship completely. And then another realization: “You knew of it, you saw us as children!” she accused Mr. Knightley - the first words either had spoken for many minutes.

He nodded slowly. “Yes, but Emma, if I had thought that it would be best for you to remember, I would have pressed it. However, your beliefs were so firm, your thoughts so set against, and you were so young, so very young, I thought it possible that -”

“No, no, I would not have been able to hear it,” Emma said, absolving him at once, seeing the turmoil etched on his face. “But now,” she added, voice dropping to an almost-whisper. “Now, I do see it. But dear Mr. Knightley,” she said, grasping his hands in hers and imbuing her voice with the truth she was about to speak. “We are married, and I care for you above all others. I always have and always shall. And I. As you know, I am,” she felt the blush rise in her cheeks, “joyously happy in all areas of our life together. So there is no reason to discuss this any further.”

“Dear Emma,” he said, pulling her close and taking her hands in his. “We must endeavor to be brutally truthful now. As we prefer to be, for when we are, think what deep accord we find. Yes?”

She looked up at his face, eyes shining. “Of course you are correct.” Indeed, they had both shared confidences in the dark, and even in waking hours, that every time, brought them closer and yet closer still.

“Then tell me true, Emma, if there were a way, a way to occasionally indulge in pleasures and deeper friendship with dear Jane, would you wish it?” He covered her lips with his finger. “But stay, listen first, for I have a confession to make myself.”

A further bolt hit Emma. “You desire her as well,” she whispered, but it came out as a question.

He shook his head. “Nay, no, I do not. Not as such. I do not desire her, in and of herself, though of course I admire her exceedingly as a person. Emma, no. I desire _you_ , and I desire for you everything you should wish and desire.” He stopped her with a gentle hand on her cheek when she began to shake her head. “No, before you sacrifice this thing for my sake - for I know you are about to say no - let me continue. For it is not just wishing everything for you. It is - I know not how to put this delicately, so I will simply state it. It is more than that, it is that seeing you explore your desires of this sort ignites in me - That is.” He stopped and looked away.

She squeezed his hand, speechless.

“A passion, Emma,” he blurted, “a passion that is there for you at all times, for whatever might light passion in you, so long as you.” He swallowed. “So long as you consider me still the -”

“Companion of my heart and life,” Emma said softly. “Always and forever, as you know.”

He turned back to her and squeezed her hands again. “I wish to be extremely clear: I do not need you to attempt this thing. And I understand your heart; I understand you might be perfectly content were we to continue just us. But. But perhaps, in daring to attempt a thing we wish, together, we might gain, together.”

Emma felt it keenly then, as she did so often, how Mr. Knightley was and would always be her dearest friend, her honest companion who she could depend on to guide her, in times her own sense fled her. Just as he relied on her open nature to pull him out of his tendency to be too serious.

“Of course,” Emma said, “even if we were to be in accord on the matter, there is still the lady… and,” she frowned, “the gentleman, to consider.” Though they had discussed the topic enough times that Mr. Knightley was completely easy on it; still, even Emma herself bore some ill feelings toward Mr. Churchill, though his subsequent kindness towards Miss Bates and Jane herself did much to redeem him in Emma’s eyes.

“Yes, your concern is one I have considered as well. I do find him changed, and the lady will, I believe, ensure he acts in a proper manner, should it come to it. As to the lady, well, I have watched and observed and I believe I can say with certainty that she holds you in the same esteem as I, and desires you - No, Emma, do not turn away; it is a beautiful thing - desires you greatly. And as to discretion, and maintaining proper behavior in all outward manifestations - well, I believe there is no one better suited. As you know, she is a master at hidden engagements! However, I will not enter, nor subject you to enter - as I know you would not either - into any relations where all parties are not amenable and fully informed, meaning Mr. Churchill must give his consent before any attempt is made, that is -” Mr. Knightley’s strength for discussing these difficult matters seemed to flee all at once, him having used a lifetime’s portion of courage in these moments. .

Emma by now had rallied, her natural temperament regaining its foothold, so she had no difficulty in pulling him to her and clasping him in his arms, then stroking the hair at his temple, something he loved very much for her to do. “Indeed, you are the most excellent man on Earth,” she murmured. “We will do nothing unless we are in perfect accord.”

He nodded, somewhat overcome, and she kissed him on the cheek, the jaw, and then the mouth, attempting to convey even a portion of how deeply she loved him. Further discussion was somewhat limited for a time, but later, wrapped together and sheltered by the dark, they talked about many particulars, and found that, as was often the case, they were in agreement about those as well.

~

It remained only to broach the subject with the lady. The opportunity came quickly - the very next day - when they were taking a stroll in the garden before sunset. They came upon Miss Fairfax herself, slightly disheveled and with a wild look in her eyes, walking slowly away from Hartfield.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, then blushed, for she had apparently been walking the same path, backwards and forwards, mustering up courage to call, but having it desert her each time. This alone told the Knightleys most of what they needed to know; judicious questions later would answer the rest.

“But you are dreadfully chilled!” Emma said after some time. “You must come in and take refreshment and get warm.” Sharing a quick glance with her husband, Emma took Mrs. Churchill - Jane - to their private sitting room that adjoined their bedroom. She made her sit on the settee and cover herself with a blanket, and then after obtaining hot tea and refreshments, told the servants to leave them.

“You should remain,” Emma murmured to her husband, when he moved to the door to their bedroom.

He shook his head. “We should do as we said. And not just for her sake” - he nodded towards Mrs. Churchill - “but for yours as well. This first time, you should have all the freedom, the opportunity - In short, without considering my feelings. I will wait in our bedroom. I am here if needed.”

Emma’s heart filled indescribably. This was a gift to her from him; she had no doubt. She did doubt whether she could do the same if the situation were reversed, but as was usually the case, his plan had merit, and was what they had agreed to earlier. “Then,” Emma said, “you must promise to not have a second’s doubt where my heart lies. You will know if she thinks like we do by whether I am with you immediately, or not for some time.”

He just nodded, unable to speak, and went quietly into the next room, shutting the door decisively.

Emma took a deep breath and joined Mrs. Churchill on the settee, seeing to her comfort and ensuring she was warmer. Mrs. Churchill seemed not to be able to remove her gaze from Emma’s face; she was all lingering looks and half-lowered lashes. When Emma judged that she had somewhat recovered, a mutually difficult yet fruitful short conversation was had, in which much was discussed without ever directly addressing the main point, with the end result that they were in accord about the requirement for discretion on the one hand, but perfect honesty for the parties directly affected.

After there had finally been a silence that lasted for a few moments, Emma became increasingly aware of the intimate setting and its risque nature. So, too, Mrs. Churchill’s glances at her, which were now straying to Emma’s person, her limbs, her hands. Instead of concerning her, this regard - another startling realization - thrilled her. Yes, thrilled. She had already experienced wild desire, being in bliss with Mr. Knightley, but now - Jane trembling beside her, face tipped up and lips slightly parted as if begging for Emma’s mouth, her touch, Mr. Knightley, sitting silent in the next room, by now probably aware that the lady was amenable to their views on how this would proceed - Emma felt her skin tingle, felt her most private parts begin to ache. The settee suddenly became small, such that it seemed Emma could hardly breathe but that some part of her brushed up against Miss Fairfax.

“Oh, Mrs. Knightley,” Mrs. Churchill - Jane - breathed, and Emma could forbear no longer, and leaned down to touch her lips to Jane’s. Jane gasped prettily and Emma, with a trace of the former irritation - but no! she had thought it irritation, but it was really _this_ \- brought her hand behind Jane’s neck to hold her in place. Jane seemed to melt under the touch, opening her mouth so Emma had no choice but to slide her tongue into her mouth, pulling Jane even closer by the neck and revelling in the sound she made; clearly Jane enjoyed being handled thusly.

The thought sparked along Emma’s veins, wakened her mind to all she wished to do. As there was no barrier left to her, she proceeded to do it. First, she brought her other hand to Jane’s arm, bare below the sleeve of her gown. Another small gasp when fingers met skin. Stroking it - another gasp. Emma had to bite at Jane’s lower lip because of the sounds, and had the satisfaction of Jane going even more quiescent in her arms. “You must tell me if there is anything you do not - ”

“Anything!” Jane said, rallying enough to push her own tongue into Emma’s mouth.

A fierce feeling pierced Emma through: desire to claim, protectiveness, reunion and curiosity all at once. “Call me by my name,” she said, but it came out low and forceful.

Jane whimpered and Emma was undone; her hand sought the smooth skin of Jane’s shoulder - that she had touched before, that had been seared into her mind - then slid down the creamy expanse of her bosom, traced lightly over the silk of her dress until -

“Oh!” Jane gasped, arching in Emma’s arms.

“ _Yes_ ,” Emma said, and did it again and again, switching first to one and then the other side, until Jane’s nipples were hard peaks under the silk and she was panting for breath, chanting, “Please, Mrs. Knight - Emma. _Emma_.”

Emma grappled her under the arms at that and laid her down on the settee, clambering on top of her. The top of Jane’s dress was a flimsy nothing - it and the small shirt under came down in a flash, exposing her lush breasts, the now hard and dark peaks of her nipples. “Stay!” Emma said fiercely, as she tweaked them almost-harshly, reveling in the feel of Jane writhing beneath her, pushing her chest up into Emma’s fingers wantonly. She leaned forward and licked, then sucked, alternating it with pinches of her fingers, beginning to rock her hips down on her.

Jane was panting, writhing under her, hair out of its dressing, her dress all disheveled - in short, she looked ravished. Emma thought briefly of how it all made sense, her former irritation and frustration at Jane, for it was actually this, _this_. She pushed herself up and grabbed at Jane’s skirts, rucked them up and - patience deserting her completely - shoved down the brief underthing there. She had to breathe hard when she saw the abundant dark hair, darker even than on Jane’s head, perfectly white thighs, the blush of her bud peaking out, all hard, the faint moist sheen that told her Jane was, like Emma, full of desire and ready.

Her mind briefly faltered. Jane had said _anything_. The pictures Knightley had shown her, her own knowledge from her conjugal relations - they suggested many things, but here Jane was, breathing hard, skirts up, bodice down, a feast laid out for her.

She leaned down and licked. Jane’s hips thrust up into her mouth and she cried out. Emma pushed her down with her hands on her hip bones. “No. Stay here,” she said, her voice more commanding than she was used to; something instinctive guiding her now. Jane positively moaned at that, so Emma licked again, hands firmly on her hips, then again and again, until Jane was trembling, thighs clasped hard in order not to move. “Yes, like that, good,” Emma crooned, sitting back a little and bringing a finger to just barely brush over Jane’s folds. “Open your limbs now, Jane,” Emma said.

Jane shuddered, but did not move, just staring at Emma, eyes glazed.

“Your legs, you must open them and keep them in that position,” Emma murmured.

“Oh!” Jane moaned.

“Yes, that is well started,” Emma said when Jane managed to move her thighs slightly. “But I want to see all,” she added, grasping at Jane’s white thighs and shoving them apart and up, taking an odd delight in the pink marks springing up where her hands held her tight.

Jane panted and looked up at her wildly, obviously transported, then blushed fiercely, a blush that ran most of the way down her chest, and caused Emma to have to lean down and kiss teasingly close to her nipples until Jane was even more wild and frantic under her, legs still pressed open by Emma’s hands, so Jane’s naked privates were subjected to the rubbing of Emma’s silks.

Jane panted and tried to arch her hips, seeking purchase for her most delicate areas against Emma’s body..

“Yes,” Emma said. “Yes, yes, dear Jane, you love it.”

“Please,” Jane whispered, looking at Emma like there was nothing else in her world.

“Shhh, yes,” Emma said, sitting up and back at last and plunging two fingers at once inside Jane, letting her thumb brush on her nub of pleasure at the same time.

Jane made a harsh, keening sound, then covered her mouth with her arm.

“No, dear,” Emma said, removing Jane’s arm gently. “Let me hear. Let me see.”

“Oh, Emma, Emma,” Jane chanted, “Please, please.”

“Yes, yes, dear Jane, show me, let me. Feel this,” Emma said, adding another finger and leaning down to take a nipple in her mouth and bite, ever so gently, then harder when Jane keened. “Emma, Emma, I am.” She moaned and shuddered, hands grasping fiercely at the fabric of Emma’s dress. “Completion, I am so - it is -”

“Yes, for me,” Emma whispered fiercely.

Jane arched and groaned, insides spasming on Emma’s fingers.

“Yes, yes. Now, _again_ ,” Emma commanded, and Jane did, yelling out harshly this time, convulsing in ecstasy so hard her body lifted up off the settee.

“Oh, oh,” Jane chanted, shuddering in after-trembling for many long minutes. “Oh, Emma. Emma, oh.”

Emma lay on top of her, panting, enjoying the feeling of her under her body.

Eventually, Jane rallied. In a voice hoarse from her moans, she said, “And now, may I -”

“Yes, now,” Emma said, no longer able to forbear, and drew Jane’s hand down to her own center, pressing her fingers against her bud as she liked it sometimes; fast and hard and to the point.

“Oh, my God,” Jane whispered, as Emma arched over her, throwing back her head in joy as the little death hit her.

“Do not stop,” Emma commanded, and Jane kept up her work until Emma had gone through another two deep convulsions, then collapsed on top of her, batting her fingers away.

Jane stroked Emma’s hair and kissed at her jaw, and eventually Emma roused enough to kiss Jane full on the lips, this time sweetly. “Are you well?” Emma asked, more hesitant than she had been during their entire encounter. “Did I hurt you or in any way offend or -”

Jane laughed, a delightful, bell-like sound. “It was perfectly to order. I do not understand it, but from you, I believe this is what I have long desired.” She sounded shy again when she asked, “And… for you?”

Emma nodded. “Yes, precisely as with you; it is as if this is what I was meant to wish for from you.”

After a while longer of rest and recovery, it was time to make the last part of the plan true, and they rose and after availing themselves of the bath water and soap already laid to hand and attiring themselves in enough clothes for decency, went into the bedroom, where Mr. Knightley made a pretense of reading the newspaper. “Oh, _darling_ ,” Emma said, and in that one word, Mr. Knightley heard all: he was, as he had ever been and always would be, her great love, and allowing her the run of her passions - and the true love that underlay them as well - would only deepen that love. He smiled at her and she saw his understanding and his happiness, and was momentarily overcome.

“We are in accord, then?” he asked, and both ladies nodded as one. “And there shall be no concern in the other quarter?” he added, just to hear it himself from Jane’s lips.

Jane nodded seriously. “Like you, the two of us are in perfect accord. Our arrangement allows for certain exceptions during his time of travel, and he is frankly delighted I will have such excellent protectors. However, as full honesty is our mutual vow, I must tell you that I have promised to tell him of any exploits we have, if he should wish it.”

Mr. Knightley flushed slightly, the cause of which was something Emma decided to explore later - much later - but nodded. “Let us seal it with you remaining here tonight?” he asked, for he knew this first time it needed to be at his request.

So they did lie down all together, at first to doze, but later, in the quiet of the night, perchance there was a time when Mr. Knightley, hands curving around from behind and stroking Emma’s breasts, lips on the back of her neck, murmured passionately, “To see you with your hands on her like this, Emma, fulfilling every part of yourself, baring your deepest self to me like this, _Emma_!” Still later, after a mutual rest, there may have been a time when Jane was finding Emma’s most secret places with her tongue, Emma shuddering in Mr. Knightley’s arms as he plunged deep inside her, and it may even have been - though the younger Emma would have protested it would never be - that Emma, transported by love and passion, cried out at the moment of completion, “Mr. Knightley, Jane, oh _George_!, at which point the gentleman grabbed her even harder and spillled inside her, just as Jane and Emma cried out in mutual joy.

 

~

And so they continued through the years, fulfilling the promise of their special association. For her part, Mrs. Churchill enjoyed the companionship and pleasures of time with her old friends when her husband was absent on his long journeys overseas. Mr. Churchill - far from resenting the relationship - felt comforted knowing his dear wife was with loving friends. If sometimes during his time at home, he delighted in wrestling stories from his usually demure wife’s lips of the relations between the three, that was a secret he and Jane kept to themselves. If she, in turn, demanded sweetly that he share details of an encounter he had had overseas, and the thrill of their sharing brought on a mutual ardour unusual in those married for so long, none ever heard of it.

For their part, Mr. and Mrs. Knightley drew every year even closer, though it had seemed impossible there was room to be more so. Mr. Knightley delighted in introducing Emma to new places, just as he delighted in introducing her to more earthly passions. They traveled near and far, and he was always guided by her preferences; they never lingered at or returned to places she did not care for, and he found himself always in perfect agreement with her judgment in any case.

In the fulness of time, they were blessed with children, who they loved with a fierceness and unity of spirit that was wonderful to see. Their children - two boys and a girl and left at that number, thanks to Mr. Knightley’s consideration in the marriage bed (as well as their lively enjoyment of conjugal relations that did not always result in the consummative deed) - had a combination of their spirits: they were lively and open in temperament, but discerning, and they were full of the natural happiness that comes when children are secure in the love of their parents. Their Aunt Jane was a delightful addition to their lives when she came to visit, and they made her smile as no one else could; she always brought the latest sweets from Yorkshire during her visits. She herself was childless, and the children became almost like her own. She was an excellent model for them of an adult not their parents who yet was noble in her manners, and her unconditional love for each child gave them another secure place to lay down their troubles.

Every year, Emma made Mr. Knightley discuss their special association with Mrs. Churchill, and every year he satisfied her as to his feelings; he knew her love for him was everything to her. As he would say, “Your heart is so big, it can love me completely and hold still more.” Mr. Knightley’s own fondness for Jane was no small thing itself, something that gave Mrs. Knightley much satisfaction. Emma’s gratitude toward her husband for seeing and nurturing this part of herself knew no bounds; at times it almost overwhelmed her, how lucky and happy she was. “Dear Emma,” Mr. Knightley said, coming upon her unexpectedly, and in the throes of some strong emotion, “Tell me at once, what is the matter?”

“It is only,” she got out between dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief, “that I am so very, very lucky. To have you.”

“You have always,” Mr. Knightley said, voice rough and eyes misting, “always had me, dearest Emma. And you always shall, so long as you desire it.”

Emma laughed through her tears and took his hand. “I desire it. More than anything, as you well know.” Her eyes turned mischievous, looking up his handsome, dear features. “Shall we, perhaps…?”

“Mmm,” he said, lifting her up in his still-strong arms. “Yes. Yes, we shall. Always.”

~

The End

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I'm going to try to start adding a few of the more interesting things I came across when doing some research related to this fic. 
> 
> Mr. Knightley's "consideration" in the marriage bed. Though in some contexts rudimentary condoms (that sound painful and close to useless omfg) were used for contraception, this would not be a thing that would ever be discussed, let alone used, among the nobility/upper classes. However, if a husband was very "considerate," he might refrain from intercourse during certain phases of life, and/or pull out, etc. The euphemism "consideration" tickled me, and I thought Mr. Knightley would engage in it, wanting to space out and limit the extraordinarily dangerous process of pregnancy and childbirth for Emma. Of course, with *this* Emma and *this* Mr. Knightley, it would be something they'd decide together, and maybe even include as a fun reason to do other things. Cite:


End file.
